


Universal Truth According to the Dead

by Necronon



Category: The Chronicles of Riddick (2004), The Chronicles of Riddick Series, The Chronicles of Riddick: Escape from Butcher Bay
Genre: Butcher Bay, Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, Furyans, M/M, Multi, Necromongers, Post Chronicles of Riddick, Slow Burn, Violence, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7279969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zhylaw has fallen and the Necromonger empire lies divided. Between the two pieces stands a wayward general, whose desire to cast off false ideals wars with his sense of duty. Either future is uncertain, but only one sees him alive and out from under Riddick's blade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Enough time had passed that the Necromonger elite were beginning to gossip; a remarkable occurrence among quarter-deads with little regard for the passing of time. Zhylaw the Last had fallen, and with him so had the knees of his subjects. Kneeling not because a greater man than Lord Marshall Zhylaw had deposed a lesser, but because Necromonger law deemed that you keep what you kill, even if what you've killed is edict, only to inherit an empire.  
  
If a Lord Marshall fell, it was only out of his own ineptitude; thus the one to succeed him was judged fit if an immediate insurrection didn't send him to the Underverse before his induction. If the insurgent failed, he would die an attestation to the new Lord Marshall's right to rule, for the Necromongers lived in death and welcomed it, ruled by its absolution. So when several knees did not hit the cold stone, it was not because a man lesser than Zhylaw had usurped their lord, but because the man was neither quarter-dead, nor a Necromonger. While he embodied many things ideal of a Lord Marshall, he was many things that a Necromonger was not.  
  
Most of all, Furyan.  
  
The prophesied one, and a walking paradigm of all that the Necromonger faith sought to cleanse. The unnatural state, the sickness, the Discord they fought to purge from the universe.  
  
"Zhylaw must be turning in his grave," said a slight woman, her shapely posture bent by indignation. The second skin she wore, a tailored ash and gold dress with a high neck and absent sleeves that accentuated her lithe figure, trailed behind her heels as she repeatedly turned before stopping abruptly. "And you..."  
  
"Me," the man said flatly. "And he must be. In his grave. You were so certain the Underverse would not have him."  
  
She jerked her chin up and narrowed her eyes. "As I still am, as much as it won't have the breeder that lounges on our throne now, while you sit idly by."  
  
He waited, and when she waited in turn and set a hand upon her sharp hip, he said, "What would you have me do? Commit treason again? If that _breeder_ was another, I would have had an axe to my neck."  
  
"If you had—"  
  
"Are you so insatiable, Elina?"  
  
The woman's painted lips turned slowly downwards into a taut frown. It was difficult to tell whether the man's accusation, or the rare utterance of her name, had given her pause, but she immediately composed herself. Her arms fell smoothly by her side as she straightened and let her expression melt into a vacant mask. "He refused."  
  
The man, her husband and a general of the Necromonger flotilla, barely lifted a brow. "So he did. There is something else?"  
  
Dame Vaako did not let her mask slip. It was her lingering that disclosed to him that there was more, his spouse never one to hesitate; if she had said all there was, she would have turned curtly and left him to simmer.  
  
"Yes," she admitted brusquely, crossing her delicate arms. "He asks for you."  
  
She was watching him closely, trying to discern any change in his demeanor, but he did not let her see his surprise. "If the Lord Marshall summons me, then I will go."  
  
"Of course you will," she snapped. "To your death."  
  
"You cannot know that. And your anger is surely not in the interest of my well-being."  
  
" _You_ should be angry, as long as he lives. It is an outrage!"  
  
And perhaps she was right, but Vaako was not angry. Tired, weary—all those things, but not angry. He understood her meaning, but the coinciding emotions, what Necromongers were capable of besides, had not stirred within him, and his dulled ambition only further served to incite his wife's ire. More so while a real threat sat upon the throne.  
  
Vaako bowed his head a hair, a gesture that was more dismissive than respectful, and turned to leave, Dame Vaako's scowl hot on his back.  
  
Since Zhylaw's fall—what Vaako heard more accurately described as Zhylaw's Folly due to his prowess, which should have been threatened by the rare seasoned Necromonger alone, being trumped by a breeder—the Basilica had seen nothing of their new Lord Marshall. He was less a lord, and more a legend, a ghost of something that had happened despite his very real existence on their front runner dreadnought.  
  
For a cycle they drifted, until all at once the Basilica rumbled and began to move again. When Navigator Zell Bronner flew into a tizzy about protocol and not being properly briefed, the Council had been able to offer him little in the way of explanation. A command directly from the Lord Marshall himself, to the quasi dead and no one else, they had said. Their coordinates and the reason for them had been kept secret, perhaps not out of necessity as much as negligence.  
  
But it wasn't just their new Lord Marshall's nontraditional demeanor that had forged a great deal of unrest, but Vaako's own foiled coup. Many had witnessed his advance, and his prompt failure soon after, and in the eyes of concerned Necropolisians, it was no coincidence that both a Furyan and an esteemed general of their armada had closed in on their Lord Marshal within the span of a few minutes.  
  
As Vaako walked, his gait purposeful and quick, crewmen turned to watch him go or stepped from his path as if his treachery was contagious. He made a point not to acknowledge their evasion, instead tracing a beeline to the elevator at the end of a passageway towards the bow of the ship where the Lord Marshall's quarters were situated, a large compartment in the superstructure of the Basilica outfitted with additional command consoles and surrounded on all sides by reinforced bulkheads.  
  
Spacious halls narrowed into more private passageways, the ribs of elaborately vaulted ceilings racing up from the floor like black sinew to conjoin at a varnished alloy keystone whose quad-faced head bore a close resemblance to the ceremonial helm of Lord Marshals. Tall but claustrophobic, the trek to the pair of ornate doors, palette as grim as the rest of the ship and those within it, had instilled in Vaako a sense of consequence. He could not remember the last time he had been called to the Lord Marshal's quarters, and he hesitated to place his hand in the accompanying scanner that would admit him within.  
  
When he finally did, nothing happened. Vaako waited, growing more certain that his wife had decided to test him and the Lord Marshall was expecting no one, until the scanner radiated a serene blue of approval and the heavy doors began to retreat into the bulkheads that supported them.  
  
The interior of the room was pitch, a dim column of light reaching from either side of him as far as a black and bronze table set atop an unusually lavish runner, the center of which was striped by his own shadow. Vaako did not remember their previous Lord Marshall as a stylish man, and was briefly taken aback by the small display of personality.  
  
He snapped to and immediately stepped inside, careful not to bristle when the doors closed, barring his escape should he be assailed and depriving him of what little light had spilled into the chamber.  
  
In the black, he fell to a perfunctory knee and said, "Lord Marshall Riddick," doing his best to speak the name with a respectful familiarity. His efforts were in vain.  
  
The half-dead Lord Marshall was a being of immeasurable power, and a single Lord Marshall often reigned for more than a century before he was opposed. The changing of hands was always a jarring circumstance, and Vaako keenly felt recent events in spite of his suppressed sentiment.  
  
When no answer came, Vaako lifted his bowed head and looked into the darkness from under a heavy brow. He could see nothing, and wondered again if he were a fool. Until his eyes adjusted just enough to make out two silvery orbs suspended in the distant shadow, reflecting what minuscule light an adjacent terminal's indicator could afford.  
  
Vaako felt the beginnings of panic, that natural fear of a predator hidden in the jungle or to an infant, behind a door ajar. It could have been the gaze of a hell hound, placed to strike him down once he was trapped, except logic insisted the eyes were not quite that large nor that far apart to be such a creature.  
  
A voice, low and like granite, rumbled forth. "I can smell it, you know."  
  
Vaako remained silent and glanced back towards the metallic floor with a frown.  
  
"The sweat. Yours. All in my mouth and nose, like brine from the sea."  
  
"Why have you called me here?" Vaako hazarded impatiently.  
  
"To ask you a question," was the Lord Marshal's casual response.  
  
Vaako waited, again, while the man in the shadows moved, silent as a whisper, and drew a few steps closer, causing his kneeling company to tense. _Surely now, he'll strike, and I'll—_  
  
"Get up."  
  
Vaako rose promptly and crossed his arms at the small of his back, daring to meet the lustrous gaze that hovered before him out of sheer captivation. A great stalking cat, he thought, asserting itself. Or perhaps sizing up prey.  
  
"Your wife came to see me."  
  
"She did."  
  
"She tried," the Lord Marshall corrected him. "Sexy. Looked like she wanted to do more than talk. What do you think?"  
  
"You—" Vaako clamped down on his retort and drew in a deep breath. "You are the Lord Marshal. It matters little what I think."  
  
"Pussy like you, wrapped so tight around her finger you could kiss your own ass. I can see why she's so hungry for a fuck."  
  
Vaako's ego was not so great as Dame Vaako's, but it was enough to send a white-knuckled fist in the direction of those two taunting eyes. Before it could hit its mark, however, it was caught and his arm was wrenched around. Vaako was skilled at hand-to-hand combat, but in the dark he was at a disadvantage. Within a fraction of a second, he was hauled to the floor, cool metal biting into the bone of his cheek. He did not cry out or curse the other man, but his dark eyes burned with malice. He thought Riddick might have seen, because he put a boot in the center of his back and Vaako could hear the smile in his voice.  
  
"But that isn't why you agreed to put a knife in Zhylaw's back, is it? A lot of people aboard this ship want the same for me, your wife among them." Vaako felt the pressure on his back ease off a little, and he involuntarily gasped. "You want that?"  
  
_Of course!_ would have been Dame Vaako's response. He knew what she would do, what she would say, but of late a fissure had formed between them. A product of forging his last two purifications, or Elina's, or both. Certainly the primal side of sex had benefited, but he'd started to think more for himself; at first to Dame Vaako's pleasure, then very much to her displeasure. Vaako must have been quiet a little longer than the Lord Marshal's patience could tolerate, because the boot pressed down again.  
  
"N-No," he mumbled at last, and the boot fell away.  
  
Vaako cautiously stood and tried to steady his breathing. The eyes had vanished, but he could feel Riddick's presence nearby: a great weight pushing back against him, as poignant as it was unseen.  
  
"You know," came that resonate voice again, "I thought about putting this piece of shit on a collision course with the sun, but then I realized something: an army is just what I need."  
  
Vaako, resisting the urge to rub at his sore arm, straightened and lofted a brow. "And why is that?"  
  
"Got a friend that'd appreciate a favor." A pause. "And we need to have a little chat."  
  
"A favor?"  
  
"A free pass." Silence pervaded, and then the Lord Marshal's voice dropped a decibel. "From Butcher Bay."  
  
"The correctional facility."  
  
"Yeah, you know it. Your freaks dug that up for you, along with a lot of other shit I was trying to forget. He's on ice, in triple-max. And you're going to help me get him out. Ain't like the warden's going to see the Basilica and you undead fucks and say _no_."  
  
Vaako wagered he was right. Ex-convict turned Lord Marshal, and they were all at his mercy. But one thing weighed on his mind above all else, and before he could be dismissed, Vaako let slip, "Why me?"  
  
A laugh that was less mirth and more brutal broke the silence. "Get out."  
  
He had no choice but to do just that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Solum Carcere System. Three hours out from Carcere Major.**

 

"And you're sure, Mr. Bronner?"

"God damn it, I'm sure. It's my job, you know." Zell Bronner sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. His rolled sleeves smelled of pipe and one eye was foggy from cataracts.

"But why would he want to go to Carcere Major?"

"I. Don't. Fuckin' know. I read the stars, not minds. Ask the skinny shits. Maybe he's got a vendetta—kinda noticed he follows through with those."

"Don't you think we tried that?" A stolid woman adjacent to Bronner with harsh cheekbones sat forward enough that the sallow light overhead pooled in her eyes, making them less olive and more wolfish. Far as Zell figured, she'd eat a man all the same. "Couldn't there be something else there?"

"Other 'n the Bay? Nah. They put that place in the ground and on that particular rock for a reason. Even if one of the inmates managed to make it to the surface, _and_ secure a craft, those cutters they got in the hangar there wouldn't make it out of the system. The warden and his staff are just as stuck, and just as vicious for it. Man forgets his kilter after a tour on Carcere Major. Three stars in the entire system: one is Major's moon, and the other is Major's sun, and both are shit."

"Enough of this," a man said, cutting in and looking towards Dame Vaako, who was seated across from him with a fine sheen of sweat on her brow. "Where is Commander Vaako? Your husband is late, _Elina."_

Dame Vaako snapped her head in his direction, onyx eyes wide and round with insult. "You would do well to mind how you speak to me, Chairman."

"Ah, yes," he said, "the wife of First Among Commanders." His lip curled with disgust. "First among traitors, is more like it. I wonder how long he was skulking in the shadows, waiting for his chance. And then, in the end, having it stolen by a breeder. How you can show your face, I cannot fathom."

Dame Vaako shook with fury, lips pressed tightly together and fingers curled into her palms beneath the table. It was true that any dishonor on her husband's part directly reflected upon her, as was their culture where a wife was an extension of her spouse, but she would not have it. Her husband was still First, and Zhylaw had more than deserved his demise. Chairman Vorsch had been in Zhylaw's pocket, however, and more than any at the table he lamented Zhylaw's death and feared his own demotion, or worse.

True, she had no reason to worry. While Vaako served their Lord Marshal, necromonger or no, she was relatively untouchable. This made her smile, something that Vorsch acknowledged with his own twitching lip as if her train of thought had been apparent.

It was then that all the heads in the room turned. The doors to the council room opened, and Vaako walked through, heavy footfalls pervading the silence. He took a seat beside Dame Vaako and sat stiffly.

The room was quiet, until Chairman Vorsch said, "He will not be joining us, I presume?"

Vaako's eyes flicked to Vorsch. "I am no more privy to the Lord Marshal's whims than you, Chairman."

"But aren't you? You were seen heading towards the Lord Marshal's private quarters just yesterday."

"That was… He did not discuss anything with me."

"Then for what purpose did he summon you?"

There was a sly smile in Vorsch's eyes that Vaako wished to aggressively remove, but he remained seated and postured. Another time, perhaps.

"That," Vaako said with sincere agitation, "I do not know either."

"Well," Vorsch said with a dramatic gesture of his hand. He held it out in Zell Bronner's direction. "It would seem our _navigator_ is the only one with any idea of what's going on."

"I never said I—"

"Shut up, Zell." Vorsch sat back and drew in a deep breath, letting his eyes close momentarily.

Zell Bronner, one of the few personnel on the ship that hadn't undergone purification, bit back a few choice words of his own. Why Zell had been allotted his humanity, only the late Lord Marshal knew, and the navigator's incessant fidgeting since Zhylaw's passing had not gone unnoticed. He was battered, aged beyond his years, and despised for his bawdiness by most on the Basilica.

When the wayward man had been found drunk and covered in his own piss in an alcove of the Great Hall, more than one person had questioned his pardoning—and the expensive Arlonian whiskey, a known favorite of the Lord Marshal's. Drinking was otherwise frowned upon, seen as a vice for breeders and those of weak spirit. When it came to plotting trajectories and astrophysics, the man was a regular savant though no one knew it to look at him, but it didn't seem to merit the Lord Marshal, a very severe man, looking the other way.

Somewhere in the back of Vaako's mind, he thought their new Lord Marshal and their resident chief navigator would get along. Little did he know, the truth was not so different.

 

_______________________________

 

Two sets of panels, one above and one below, lit up. A gossamer blue projection of a pompous looking man, far too young to be warden, materialized between them.

 _"This is Abel Deschamps, acting warden of Butcher Bay. You are violating C_ _a_ _rcere airspace. This is an authorized-orbit only star. You've five minutes to exit the exosphere before override_ _if you do not present USRN identification._ _"_

"This old song and dance," Zell said before closing communications with a lazy swipe of his thumb. "You think he's even still alive?"

"I don't think—I know."

"Well, excuuuuuse me." Zell spun in his chair so that he could look Riddick in the face and kick his boots up onto the console. "Y'gonna solo this then? I get that you're a badass, but you might change your tune once you're in the cruiser and outside the hull of the Basilica… I'm just sayin', Abel ain't no Hoxie."

"Meaning..."

"Meaning if you thought Hoxie was a sick fuck, this kid volunteered for Butcher's. He _wanted_ to get assigned there. He got drafted and dropped on Vessa during the war. Ain't no one come outta there normal, least of all infantry. Not really sure how or why he's running the Bay, but what I know ain't good."

Riddick smiled and inclined his head, the light from the console flashing across his goggles.

Zell rolled his eyes. "Just sayin' you might want to think about bringin' someone with."

"I am." Riddick took two heavy steps forward and grabbed a hand rail overhead, letting his weight sag as he stared at the vertical display ahead and studied the jumping metrics.

"What?"

"Bringing someone with."

Zell fished the cigar from his mouth, one of his last, and slowly grinned as revelation dawned. There was a perceptive twinkle in his eye that Riddick didn't have to look to see. "That kid, Vaako."

"How'd you guess." His voice was dull and low, not unlike the humming thrusters of the ship that could be felt underfoot as they rattled, shut down, and fell silent upon entering orbit.

The chief navigator's cockpit, mostly defunct after the implementation of the quasi-dead, was situated near the bow of the ship along the keel so that when Riddick moved to access the terminal and the solid sheet of matte alloy in front of them faded into transparency, they could see Carcere Major beneath them.

"There she is," Zell said with nostalgia.

A massive orange and coral planet with faint purple bruises that pulsed electric blue where storms marred her surface, offset only by the dour gray of the almost equally large moon. Both bodies were of such size that they appeared to orbit one another more than the moon orbited its larger.

Riddick knew the view wasn't bad from the surface either. Only there was the Bay, and by it, the Drowning Sea that smelled like shit because of all the sulfur; a cruel joke on a planet where the topography was ninety percent barren desert.

Zell shook his head and snorted. "If it was anyone else 'sides Abel, I'd say they were shitting their pants right now. Whole armada in their orbit, shit. That's some overkill, boss. And Chairman Vorsch, that fuck, he's probably pissed you dragged the fleet to the ass end of the 'verse to begin with. He was all over the place. He's got it out for you and your boy. He's gonna move, it's only a matter of time."

Riddick looked over his arm, the one still holding onto the overhead. "He can try."

"And Vaako, he's got the respect of his platoon and the other officers, but the Council hates him—anyone from the fleet if they hold some sway. Zhylaw got most of his commanders young. Whole _obedience without question_ bull flies easier that way, and Vaako was no exception."

"Necro politics..."

"Yeah. The First Among Commanders was always more of a figurehead, but now it means something, and the Council knows that no amount of boot lickin' is going to change that. Facts is facts. Can't trust a fucker on that board."

"Good thing I got you," Riddick said, a brow slowly rising above one of his shielded eyes.

"You damn right." Zell gave him a toothy grin.

"Tell me about Vaako." Riddick glanced back to Carcere. "What's his story."

"Ah, I dunno much, just what Talvh told me."

"Talvh?"

"Ah, that is… Lord Marshal Zhylaw."

"First name basis… Why don't you tell me about _that?"_

Zell looked away and grunted, rubbing a hand through his stubble. "Take off. Anyways, kid's name was… Jen Vaako. Young, but furious. Purified twice before he chilled out. Arranged with Elina not long after, and flew under the radar for a good while. Zhylaw never talked about his people though, not on purpose."

"Jen? Really?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't go calling that out. Ain't like it's much worse than 'Richard.' "

Riddick laughed. "We can't all have names worthy of your comics, Zell."

"Another thing," Zell said, suddenly serious. "What you asked about. I made a little headway, but there's no time to talk about it just now. Your girl's stasis is good for a long while. Anyway, you need to get to the docking bay. Want me to send word to your First?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

_______________________________

 

Vaako leaned closer to the mirror to investigate the fine sheen of sweat on his brow and atop his lip, as well as the minuscule stubble that contoured his pale jaw. It was rare he needed to shave, each time resulting in less to trim. He didn't understand the finer details of purification, but he knew that it slowed the body and sharpened the mind, excessive purification resulting in a sharper mind still, but had irreversible effects on the flesh. The lensors, and the quasi-dead were all examples.

He'd skipped two purifications at his wife's behest—it had entertained her for a while, and for a time that and his success as a commander had been all that mattered—but something else was afoot. Of late, he was more inclined to act upon his aggression, and more aggressive in general, for that matter. His wife's pretense, the Chairman's jeering all grated on his nerves. Perhaps he'd been ship-ridden for too long and needed the release that only combat could bring.

Vaako turned his head to inspect one of the marks on the side of his neck, probing it with an investigatory finger. His nerves fired, and he hissed, pulling his hand away.

_All strange._

He stowed the thought for later and began the process of shaving, partial to a traditional razor while most used its laser variant.

He was nearly through when the scenery behind him—reflected in the mirror—moved, startling him enough that the blade nicked his skin just below the jaw. It fell to the floor, but Vaako didn't move to retrieve it, instead keeping his eyes on the mirror and the other in it.

The Lord Marshal was leaning against the wall across from the mirror, eyes obscured and arms crossed over his broad chest.

"What," Vaako started, still at a loss, "are you doing? In my bathroom?"

"Watching."

Vaako frowned. "That's not an answer."

Riddick waited, then pushed off from the wall and moved closer. "You're bleeding."

"What?" The hand that Vaako slapped to his neck came away red. He looked at it, then to Riddick with furrowed brows.

He couldn't see behind the man's goggles, but he could make out the slow tell-tale motion of his head as he looked up and then down. Riddick took another step closer until Vaako could feel his silent breath moistening the back of his neck. But Vaako didn't back down. He stood his ground and watched the Lord Marshal through the glass with cool eyes.

Riddick canted his head and the corner of his lips pulled into a fleeting smile. "Look at you, white as virgin snow." Then he reached around and plucked a single dark braid from his First's bare chest where it had been separated and gingerly dropped it behind his shoulder to join the rest.

"What do you want, _Riddick_ ," Vaako said through clenched teeth.

"What happened to _Lord Marshal Riddick?"_ Riddick leaned in a scant inch and hummed behind his lips. "All on your hands and knees and shit."

Vaako didn't bite. Even as a hot plume of breath rolled along the shell of his ear and the Lord Marshal's voice reverberated against his skin, a lion's purr caught in the beast's chest; he maintained, like playing dead beneath a nosing bear.

It worked well enough. Riddick finally retreated, telling Vaako to "get his shit and meet him in the bay" on the way out.


	3. Chapter 3

"We should not _be here_ , Vorsch. He'll—"

"Know? How can he know? You forget our Lord Marshal is a breeder."

"Not after he crosses the Threshold… Not then."

Chairman Vorsch stopped and looked sideways at his colleague, pupils pinned at the center of his icy eyes. Atop his head was the skeletal coif that denoted his position, an elaborate variant of the Purifier's ensemble that bore a scowling face for its widow's peak.

"You're afraid of him." He watched her closely.

She felt the sudden urge to draw back, to shield herself from his gaze. He looked upon her as if her skin were glass, seeing all and more. The experience was never any less disconcerting. "I simply do not wish," she said matter-of-factually, "to die before my due time, Chairman."

A willing convert when the comet came, and a ruthless politician before purification, Vorsch had climbed the ranks quickly. His first post of significant power, and one that he had excelled at, had been purifier. Then Head Purifier, and after that, Chairman of the Council. Despite his status as quarter-dead, his intuition had often been likened to that of the Lord Marshal himself, and many agreed behind closed doors that should Vorsch show initiative, they would stand behind him. He had been a shoo-in for Vice Marshal; until Riddick happened.

Vorsch's tight expression softened as he extended an arm and set a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Trust me, Moira. Have I ever lead you astray? Have I ever not done in the name of the faith?"

Moira barely contained a flinch, and said, "No..."

"Then, please…" Vorsch glided behind her, quick as he was quiet with his soul an inch ahead of his flesh, and pulled a chair back for her. He smiled. "Sit."

She did, and no sooner the pool of liquid metal—memorite, a native ore from their home world whose properties made it sensitive to psychokinetics—in a basin at the table's center began to change. The surface rippled and protruded, molding itself rapidly until the head and shoulders of a man looked blindly back at her.

"Mr. Deschamps."

"Vorsch, I presume," said the man, a metallic brow arching high above an equally metallic eye.

"That is correct. Shall I assume your cooperation?"

There was a pause, then an audible exhale.

"You didn't exactly offer me an alternative. I've heard of what proceeds the comet. But unless you've a special interest in sadists and the criminally insane, I cannot imagine what you hope to gain. Or is it pamphlets? Are you handing out pamphlets?" Deschamps' bust inclined its silvery head with mock interest. " 'Death Becomes You,' or something like that? I can't say we've a demographic for you to target. The suicidal have already checked out."

"My interest," Vorsch replied with put-upon calm, "is not in your stock, Mr. Deschamps. We have a common problem."

"Inappropriate utilization of restroom facilities? The cost of mass cryo? Spit it out. I've got a prison to run."

"The only man to ever slight Butcher Bay."

Silence fell, and Moira, who was watching quietly from where she sat, felt the air leave the room as the metallic bust before her animated again. She could see the eyes narrow and the worry lines that creased its substance.

"Riddick."

"Bingo."

"I don't mean to split hairs, Chairman, but why exactly would I want that kind of trouble under my watch again?"

Vorsch gripped the side of the table and leaned in, knowing that his projected likeness on the other end would do the same. "Because a prison's federal funding hinges on its ability to actually imprison its inmates, and by extension, so does your salary. I hear you're quite the spender—really reformed the place."

"You've done your homework." A silvery hand manifested from the pool of metal as Deschamps slid a thumb thoughtfully along his jaw. "And I have. The previous warden made the mistake of cutting corners where he shouldn't have. Only reason your _problem_ ever saw daylight again, I dare say."

"And now you're turning the Bay into a pinnacle of technology. That must be quite expensive—I wonder if the cash flow has an relevance regarding the rumors. Some of your methods are controversial, are they not? And even unapproved. I can imagine that kind of field testing would prove invaluable to some; and lucrative for you."

Deschamps frowned, impatient. "Let's say I've mutually beneficial contracts with certain interested parties. The most important thing—and the only thing you should concern yourself with—is that once I take a prisoner, they're out of commission. For good."

"Getting Riddick back would certainly bolster your good name. Warden Deschamps, doing what his predecessor couldn't. And maybe your friends might find him interesting too. But taking a Necromonger commander… That would be something, wouldn't it?"

When Deschamps didn't respond, only bowing his head a fraction, Vorsch explained.

"An uncommon problem, but the reward might interest you all the more."

The metallic projection of the Butcher Bay warden smiled. He said, "I hear your army conquers and kills without mercy—that you cannot be killed. Ghosts. So it is an intriguing prospect, your having to bargain with me like this. That you are compromised in some way."

Vorsch _hmphed_ and crossed his arms at the small of his back. "You need not concern yourself with the details. You already know how _he_ can be, and my commander is no push-over either."

"Your commander? From what I understand, it's a bit the opposite way around. Well..." Deschamps waved his hand dismissively. "I really don't care. Let's talk compensation."

Vorsch nodded. "That's what I like to hear."

 

_______________________________

 

He had two hours in which to suit up and get to the hangar, and no explanation for any of it. Nor would he receive one upon arrival, or even while they were prepping for departure with little to do but communicate.

The new Lord Marshal was quiet, speaking only when necessary, and it wasn't until they were in the cruiser, a small armored transport designed to carry a single strike team, that Vaako was sure that his Lord Marshal's silence was a product of brooding.

Riddick sat in the cockpit, under-dressed beside Vaako who had donned his combat plate, and dispassionately thumbed about the console. When Vaako insisted he pilot the cruiser, naturally more familiar with the tech, he was grunted at and dismissed.

A few more minutes of whispered fingers and humming engines passed.

"If you insist on my remaining First," Vaako said at length, "you might as well make use of me." Vaako's way of saying _I'm bored out of_ _my_ _mind_ without sounding too desperate.

"You ain't gotta worry about that. I will," was Riddick's mumbled reply.

"I haven't been briefed. Can you at least clue me in as to what exactly I'm supposed to be doing?"

"Right now?" Riddick said, looking sideways over his shoulder. "Keeping your fuckin' mouth shut."

Vaako opened his mouth, paused, and then clamped it shut.

Well. At least they were getting off the Basilica. Vaako had never adapted to spacer life, especially the rigid etiquette upon which Necropolis had been built. Dame Vaako had suited him well in that respect, ready to step in where his charm fell short. It wasn't that he didn't understand social politics so much as he couldn't be made to care for them. Bloodshed, on the other hand, had suited him just fine. What breeders the purifiers couldn't convert, he slew. Though in truth, during conflict he saw little difference, cared little for what differences there were. The satisfaction of the kill was directly proportionate to his opponent's own ability to kill him in turn, whether breeder or half-dead. And in that respect, Riddick suited him well. The only downfall of their shared side of the battlefield was that Vaako no longer had the satisfaction of looking forward to their next encounter, looking forward to which man might finally take the other's head.

Not knowing if he could endure—truly not knowing—quickened him like nothing had since purification. For a theocracy that preached death, many of the faith had little appreciation for it after so many years absent fear. He did not doubt the Underverse, but he hadn't been able to fully savor the meaning of crossing over the Threshold until Riddick had threatened to expedite his arrival.

As his enemy, Riddick had earned his respect. As his Lord Marshal… Vaako had decided to honor his role as First Among until he fully grasped how to behave, and more importantly, how to feel. Now that he'd mostly shaken his wife's thirst for power, he was left scrabbling for purchase. Falling into his role and falling into line came naturally. Or it would have, if the Lord Marshal would have given him a clear objective. He didn't like teetering between two indefinites, and even less he liked his uncertain dubious allegiance. He did not like having to wonder.

Vaako seated himself on one of the benches along the length of the ship, each slotted seat paired with a mount for a sidearm and assault weapon, and watched the Lord Marshal. When the man seemed to come to a bit, he said, "The Basilica has an advanced combat simulator and a generous armory."

Vaako saw Riddick turn his head, enough that he could see the corner of one eye but not really read his expression. "You askin' me to—what? Train with you?"

"It couldn't hurt to—"

" 'Least likely to shiv me' doesn't really make us, _you_ , friendly."

"I'm not an assassin."

"Says the guy who made an attempt on the last got called Lord Marshal."

"You don't really have a choice," Vaako said darkly and leaned forward to set elbows on his knees. "Two sides, and we belong to neither. If Chairman Vorsch decides to take your head for a trophy, my allegiance to you alone won't stop him."

"Allegiance?" Riddick repeated with an amused tonality.

Vaako frowned and leaned back, the leather lashing the scales of his armor together protesting his movement.

Riddick made an _I thought so_ sound of acknowledgment and jabbed at the console.

Vaako could feel the titanic arms that anchored the ship to the Basilica retracting. A beam of orange light cut across his vision as the bay door began to open, growing brighter and taller as it went. He had just enough time to secure his harness and shield his eyes before his stomach jumped up into his throat.

As they broke free of the Basilica, the warm light of the sun exploding around them, Vaako relaxed back and let the ship toss him. He watched the sun rise out of view as the cruiser's nose dipped, replaced by the surface of Carcere Major.

The Basilica behind them, Butcher Bay before them, Vaako savored the blissful purgatory of the fall, accompanied only by six G's and the eerie hum of the cruiser's propulsion as they cut through the dense atmosphere of Major. Clouds rushed up beneath them, a few seconds of no visibility and surreal static effects, before they broke free and the Bay could be seen several miles out, little more than an aberration scratched onto Major's tundra.

Neither man spoke, and as the ship leveled out and they started more forward than down, a serene sort of silence sat heavily between them. Both seemed to bask in the twilight of Major, elevated above themselves by tempered awe. Set briefly free from petty concern. Vaako wondered if Riddick found it as liberating: the descent, the gravity yanking them back to its central mass. Vaako felt an honest appreciation of it, had experienced a similar feeling prior to his encounters with the man now piloting them towards their destination.

Vaako supposed there was an uncomplicated honesty to a good fight that he enjoyed, and a similar honesty to the Furyan as well. He was grateful for the easy quiet between them. No idle chatter, or panicked shouting. Nothing extraneous.

When they started to decelerate and the umber silhouette of Butcher Bay was clearly visible along the horizon, Riddick broke the silence, the inflection of his voice melding with that of the growling ship.

"Not how I remember it."

Vaako turned his head to look towards the front of the ship. "You know each other?"

Riddick rumbled something unintelligible and switched the cruiser to auto-pilot. Vaako watched as he made his way back and sat across from him, dropping heavily into the seat. It wasn't until a serrated edge caught the twilight that Vaako realized he was turning over a mean looking blade in his hands, sliding a thumb with what Vaako thought might have been fondness along the sides. Back and forth, the fleshy pad whispering against metal.

Vaako couldn't tell if he was looking at the ulak, or back a him—a disquieting aspect of the man's choice of headgear.

"Butcher Bay," Riddick said with a pause, "just outside of federal jurisdiction. But still close enough for bounty hunters up to their knees in shit to come crawling to." Riddick raised his chin, and Vaako felt the weight of his gaze. If he hadn't before. "Like Johns got with me."

Vaako sensed the man was coming to a point, so he remained quiet and looked across the walk, unshaken by the other's close proximity. Vaako was a little surprised how quickly he was growing accustomed to Riddick's presence. How natural it was beginning to feel.

Riddick reclined back, letting the silence stretch between them before he continued. "See… Outside of fed-space, they ain't gotta worry about humane treatment. Just throw everyone in the pit and collect. Least that was how Hoxie did it. He supplemented the lack of federal funding by mass mining with his own personal workforce. Made a pretty penny, no doubt."

"Why tell me this?" Vaako asked.

Riddick glanced towards the nose of the ship and at the view where the uppermost levels of the primarily subterranean facility could be clearly seen, closer now. "Because three Hoxie's couldn't afford whatever the hell _that_ shit is."

As the cruiser slowed and smoothly settled atop the expansive hardtop that made up the landing pad, Vaako understood. Butcher Bay was anything but the ramshackle weathered shell of a structure he'd come to expect of isolated outposts and far-flung correctional facilities.

"It does seem like an upgrade after Crematoria," Vaako said humorlessly.

"A new development. Real fuckin' new."

Outside, three men men could be seen about thirty yards out making their way towards the cruiser, two in full gear and the third in uniform and a mask. Carcere Major's atmosphere was breathable, but occasional dust storms that swept across its surface weren't.

"Ain't ever seen a prison guard that shiny," Riddick added as they waited for the ship to pressurize.

"I've never seen uniform like that. What are they, military?"

Riddick hummed and slowly cocked his head to glance at Vaako. "Trouble."

**Author's Note:**

> This piece ignores the 2013 film and Dark Athena, but all else is fodder. No beta. Sorry for any clusterfuck grammar. I do this for therapy (but also hope you enjoy it too).


End file.
